Kabir

We watch it on TV. That wonderful old woman in her kurta that is torn to strips. Stained with the blood of the dying man she had comforted. She steps out into the glare of the lights and cameras and stands there calmly. Waiting.

She falls with one bullet and does not move. She has died in my place.

How do you react to that?

I weep. I weep bitter, angry tears. Tears because I don’t deserve it. Tears because someone has done something for me that I could never have imagined. Tears because I’m still alive and there’s nothing for me to live for.

I don’t even know when she slips her hand in mine. I look down and see I’m holding her hand. I look at our two hands intertwined. Then, gently, I put her hand away.

‘I gave you a letter,’ I say. ‘That letter was for you.’

‘A letter for me? You just met me.’ She is puzzled.

‘Yes. I promised I would get it to you. That is why I was following you.’

Her eyes become wary. ‘From whom? What letter?’

‘From Aman,’ I say, watching for her reaction.

For a moment, she looks numb. Then she whispers the name. ‘Aman.’

Her face lights up. ‘Where is he? How is he?’ She fumbles for the letter in her pocket. I lean over and hold her by the wrist before she can open it. I can feel the little vein in her wrist fluttering fast.

‘I have to tell you about Aman first.’

She freezes. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘Yes.’

She stares at me with frightened eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she whispers.

I have no choice. I tell her the truth.

‘Aman is dead. And I’m the person who got him killed,’ I say.